


A Thousand Winds

by fencer_x



Category: Free!
Genre: Death, First Time, M/M, Shinigami, fleeting reference to Gou/Sousuke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright / Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, / Rage, rage against the dying of the light. || Rin flirts with Death; Death doesn't care for his technique.





	A Thousand Winds

_Dead bodies are buried under the cherry trees! You have to believe it. Otherwise, you couldn't possibly explain the beauty of the cherry blossoms. I was restless, lately, because I couldn't believe in this beauty. But I have now finally understood: dead bodies are buried under the cherry trees! You have to believe it._

– Motojirō Kajii, opening line of "Under the Cherry Trees”

* * *

The first memory he has isn’t of his mother’s face or the warm grip on his shoulder of his long-dead father. It’s not of playing with a too-tiny Gou on the porch or racing Asahi while their parents look on fondly.

It’s of drowning.

The first thing Rin remembers ever doing is drowning.

He’s five, and his mother is trying to get Gou to stop digging in the sand and eat her carrot sticks while she discusses with Asahi’s mother recent fluctuations in the price of mackerel and herring that mean they’re going to have to tighten their belts for the next few months. Rin doesn’t know what supply channels are or how sea temperatures have any influence on the amount of food on their table, but the tension between his parents of late has been palpable, so just for today at least, he wants to forget about it—specifically, by kicking Asahi’s butt using this amazing new stroke he learned about on a documentary he watched the week before.

It’s a brisk day today, and he knows that Asahi has difficulty handling chop, always sucking in water on each breath when he tries to crawl through even the tiniest swells. That’s why Rin’s going to win handily, because while Asahi’s choking on every inhalation and spitting out seawater, Rin’s going to be _flying_ over the waves, launching up and out and back in again in a graceful, powerful rhythm. He’s tried it a couple of times, and he’s pretty sure he’s got the hang of it—plus Asahi’s built like a stick; Rin’s been drinking his milk and has more than enough muscle developing to drive this stroke. Asahi won’t know what’s hit him.

He centers himself as he perches on the rocky jetty, toes curling over the moss-slick stone, and next to him, Asahi leans forward with his hands on his knees, inhaling deeply. They have to make this quick; their mothers have warned them before about playing on the jetty, fearful they’ll slip and crack their skulls, but it’s the best spot on the beach to get a proper dive in.

“Not too late to back out…” Rin goads, and Asahi’s only response is a sour frown as he tugs his goggles down. It’s overcast, and Rin can tell Asahi isn’t happy about the little whitecaps visible further out, but they’re only racing to the buoy and back. They do twice this distance every Little Swimmers class. He tugs his own goggles down, snapping the strap at the back like his dad always does for luck, and bends into a crouch alongside Asahi. “On your mark, ready…GO!”

The water is shockingly chilly now that they’ve been out for a while, and his muscles seize up momentarily before he can adjust, making his dolphin kick stiff and ineffective, and Asahi is already nearly a body-length ahead when he surfaces again. His dad keeps telling him not to get cocky, which sounds a lot like the reminder _don’t underestimate the water_ he heard some old competitor intone solemnly in a special on former Olympians.

But he’s not cocky—he’s _confident_ , because it’s just a matter of accepting and adapting. There’s nothing the water can do to help him close the distance; it’s all on _him_. So he angles his arms, forces his muscles into submission, and starts his rotation. In his mind’s eye, he can see the flickering images from the documentary playing in slow-motion, an experienced Fly swimmer offering instruction to any beginners hoping to specialize. _”Pull, push, recover—these are the basics.”_

It’s the most difficult stroke, and that’s why it’s the most rewarding. Rin is going to make it _his_ , and Asahi’s going to be his first victim.

It’s rough-going at first, and with each breath he can see Asahi still there paddling in front of him, but the distance is lessening, and he can feel Asahi’s wake now, feel the wash over his face that’s like an adrenaline jolt to the chest that spurs him on.

But then, when he crests to breathe on a _pull_ , Asahi is gone—the buoy still bobs another several body lengths away, taunting Rin, and he stops to tread water, glancing around in concern. His legs beat frantically as he tugs off his goggles, and it’s with a shudder that stops him short that he realizes he’s all alone.

He’s too far out now to hear the excited cries or chatter from the beachgoers, the only sounds around him the sloshing and slapping of water as it fetches up against his chest, knocking him off balance—pushing him off-course, further out. The buoy is somehow even further away, now, still bobbing and weaving with the swells that seem thrice as intimidating without Asahi at his side to tease.

His legs are starting to cramp from the constant motion without rest, and he makes himself sit a little lower in the water, trying to float and conserve his energy—but this just lets a wave slap over his face and fill his mouth and nostrils with salty, dirty seawater. He coughs and hacks and tosses his goggles away in a fit of irritation, using one of the curses he’s heard his dad spout when he realizes what he’s done.

The buoy is frighteningly far away, now; nearly as far as Rin was from shore when he realized he’d somehow lost Asahi. But Asahi probably just got caught and called back to shore—probably has his feet on warm, solid sand now, and Rin is out here, caught in what he’s quickly realizing is a riptide drawing him further out, with swiftly failing strength.

He just needs to get to the buoy. It can easily support the weight of a little first-year, and then he’ll be able to get his strength back, may even be able to use it to dive off and get some momentum. Then he’ll give Asahi an earful for leaving him out to dry. He won’t share his lunch for a whole week—maybe two, if he’s in a sufficiently foul mood when he gets back. That’ll teach Asahi to wimp out on him.

He remembers seeing a sign explaining how to escape riptides—but he can’t remember the details. Too many difficult kanji, and he’d been too excited for their first beach trip of the summer season. He knows he’s not supposed to fight it, but what else is there to do? Is he just supposed to sit here, floating, waiting and hoping someone will come for him?

He windmills his legs, wondering how deep the water is out here—five meters? Ten? Fifty? His toes feel frozen now, and he gasps when he thinks he feels something brush up against it, quickly backing away with great sweeps of his arms, but it was only kelp, and he’s just pushed himself further from the buoy with the action. Great.

His breathing is getting labored—he’s tired, having nearly spent himself showing off with the Butterfly stroke. There’s a burn in his legs that’s fighting against the chill of deep, cold waters to sap him of his energy, and his eyes hurt whenever he rubs at them, the saltwater irritating.

Maybe he can backstroke to the buoy—just float on his back, don’t panic, don’t rush, and eventually he’ll get there. But he knows he’s crap at navigating on his back, and if he doesn’t produce sufficient forward momentum, the tide will just keep shoving him out. He tries it anyway—and nearly sucks in a lungful of water when a rogue wave crashes over him, submerging him completely.

The water on his face is sharp and cold, and he makes the mistake of opening his eyes to orient himself back aright, but it’s just dark, and he can’t sense the surface because his mind is racing and a voice is reminding him ominously _You shouldn’t have underestimated the water,_ which is ridiculous, he thinks.

He didn’t _underestimate_ the water—he knows how dangerous the ocean can be and how worthy of respect it is, but he could say the same of his grandmother; a healthy respect for something doesn’t require you _fear_ it. He’s only stuck out here, drowning, because of stupid Asahi distracting him. He isn’t underestimating _anything_ —this is just sheer dumb luck.

 _The water doesn’t like you_ , that monotone voice cuts in again, and this is even more ridiculous than suggesting that Rin might have underestimated the water, because how can water have any emotion, much less sufficient sentience to _hate_ a five-year-old? The irritation with the matter-of-fact manner in which he feels he’s being lectured swells, warm and energizing, and even though his lungs are burning and he wants desperately to inhale, he forces his way through the black haze creeping over his consciousness and begins to claw his way back to the surface. If only to prove that voice wrong.

He didn’t underestimate the water, and the water doesn’t dislike him—he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and got into a jam. But he’s going to get out—because Asahi needs to be shown his place and Gou needs her big brother and his dad needs to see him win Gold. He has way too much left to do for it to all end now—

He charges through the barrier between sea and sky and inhales deeply, lungs aching as they take in more air than they can hold, but he keeps gulping it down, sweet and salty and fresh as it is. He doesn’t care how far out he is or how tired his legs are or how many waves come bearing down on him. This isn’t where he dies, this isn’t how he goes. He’s young and he has his whole life ahead of him.

* * *

He’s twelve years old, just had his birthday last month, and he’s all alone.

Well, not _all_ alone. There are custodial workers puttering about in the lobby area, and the evening manager is in his office, taking care of some paperwork, but other than that, he’s got the _whole pool_ to himself.

It’s past closing time, but he’s gotten permission to stay until the manager has to lock up, and Rin is intent on getting in as much practice as he can, given that the Spring Tournament is only two weeks away now. His Butterfly and Freestyle are passable (though they could be better), and he’s even managed to scrape together a relay team that he thinks can really go places.

It’s his last chance to swim with his friends; he’s already told Sousuke about his Australia plans next month, and the others…well, he’ll tell them soon enough. This is it for a while, though, and he wants to make it count. He wants his dad to look down from wherever he is now and see that Rin’s doing okay, that he’s gonna be _great_ someday. Rin wants him to see that he could’ve drowned in the sadness and loneliness and bitter misery of losing a parent, but he’s doing like his dad would want and picking himself up, fighting, and being the man of the family now. He’s going out into the world to make a name for himself.

But first he has to take the Spring Tournament. And that means practicing as late into the evening as possible. His stamina is still a little lacking, and he decides to make himself do twenty laps jogging around the pool’s edge before starting a series of alternating Butterfly and Freestyle runs down a lane. He grabs a pair of mini-dumbbells and jogs in place for a minute before making for the starting blocks. The coach has warned him against doing too much weight work this early in his development, but he doesn’t think a couple of light dumbbells can hurt all that much, and he grins a tight smile as he starts to feel the burn in his forearms and biceps after just one lap.

It’s only March now, and the chill of winter is still clinging tight, but by the time he makes it down to Sydney, it’ll be warm and balmy, maybe even _hot_. Of course, then he’ll be heading right back into another winter, which he doesn’t think is fair at all, and won’t it be weird, having Christmas when it’s summer, or celebrating Obon when it’s freezing outside? He smiles at the thought of lighting a sprig of incense for his dad with fingers chapped from wind exposure—then wonders what the man might think of his decision to move abroad.

He’d be proud of Rin, surely; after all, Rin’s doing this for _him_ , walking the path his dad couldn’t and winning the praise and glory his dad never had the chance at, and Rin clutches the dumbbells closer to his side, lifting them a hair higher and relishing the accompanying burn of effort.

His sneakers slap brightly on the tiles, echoing off the high walls before being lost in the buzz of the hanging fluorescent lights. Beyond the tall windows, the sky is blushing with the mauve of early evening as the last rays of sunlight give way to dusk, and Rin quickens his pace. His mother doesn’t like him staying out so late, but she understands it’s just for another couple of weeks. After the Spring Tournament, his new coaches will have him eating, breathing, and _dreaming_ swimming—for now, though, he has to light his own fire under himself for encouragement.

Not for the first time, he wishes Sousuke didn’t have to be so difficult; he’s _good_ , could be better than Rin even if he pushed himself more, but he doesn’t seem to have that same spark, that same drive that propels Rin unerringly towards Olympic glory. He swims because he’s good at it and because it gives him an excuse to spend more time with Rin; it’s the same reason he agreed to do the relay with Rin, even though he obviously prefers swimming solo. Rin wishes he had the luxury of picking his team, wishes he could have found someone who gave him something to aspire to.

He wishes he had a rival.

But he doesn’t; all he has is himself right now, so that will have to be enough, and if he wants something more than that, he’ll have to go out and find it. It’s not going to just fall into his lap, after all.

On his fifth lap around the pool, just as he’s rounding on the starting blocks, a light overhead sputters, flickering ominously, and he steps wrongly, foot falling too close to the pool’s edge. He sucks in a sharp breath and overcorrects to put some space between himself and the concrete drop-off—but the worn toe of his sneaker slides over a slick puddle of water pooling on the tile from the last swim class of the evening, and his head connects with the corner of the starting block with a sickening _crack_ as he drops like a sack of bricks into the pool.

Something must have been jarred loose in the fall, because he’s still conscious, he can still see, can still process what’s happening—but it’s from far away, like behind plate glass, and he can’t move, can’t feel his fingers or toes or even the chill of the pool water. He can’t feel the burn of stale air in his lungs, but he knows it’s there, knows this is _bad_. He needs to right himself—it’s barely a meter deep, what kind of loser drowns in water shallow enough he can stand in?

His vision is narrowing, blackness crowding in, and he worries he’s about to lose consciousness—and that will be that. If he slips off now, he’s not waking back up, but he can’t _move_ , can only wiggle his fingers and flick his eyes around frantically. That stupid lamp is still flickering distractedly above the surface, its light mottled by the diffraction of air and water, and for the second time in his life, he’s drowning due to circumstances beyond his control.

He can’t blame Asahi this time, though, so instead he blames the custodians for being lax in their replacement of light fixtures, or blames the club manager for being too cheap to change out the lightbulbs on a proper schedule rather than waiting for one to fizzle out and startle an innocent elementary schooler into tripping over his own two feet into the pool. And speaking of the manager—shouldn’t he be out here fishing Rin out of the water right about now? His membership fees have clearly been wasted on this facility.

His world goes dark, and he despairs for a moment—before realizing it’s not blackout but merely because something is blocking the flickering light. A head. Someone there, just above the surface, staring down and watching him drown, all with that sputtering light forming a halo, and maybe he _is_ dead now and this is just an angel, come to take him to wherever his dad has gone.

_You underestimated the water again_

He frowns to himself—that’s not a very angelic thing to do, lecturing Rin as he’s about to shuffle off the mortal coil. And more so, lecturing him with false accusations, because he’d didn’t underestimate anything; it’s just the light distracted him, and the custodians haven’t been in to mop up properly, and all right maybe doing laps around the pool hadn’t been the brightest idea, but that’s certainly not underestimating the water.

This is the second time in his life he’s been accused of being too cocky when it comes to swimming, though, and while he didn’t get a chance to defend himself last time, he’s not missing the opportunity tonight. Death can wait a little longer, because he’s going to give this disembodied voice a talking to—and that requires breath and life.

He takes a breath, sucking in water, and reflex forces him to cough violently, shocking feeling and command over his limbs back into his body. He scrabbles for the surface, bouncing off the pool bottom and shooting upright, inhaling deeply and desperately like it’s the last bit of oxygen available. His lungs hurt—breathing is _painful_. But pain means he’s alive, and he rubs viciously at his eyes to clear them, blinking past the burn of chlorine and banging on his chest.

Someone is sitting on the starting block he clipped his head on.

His breathing is still labored and ragged, but when he wipes a hand over his face, the figure doesn’t move, so he assumes it must be real and not a figment of his imagination. It’s not the building manager, nor does it seem to be any of the custodial staff—it’s a boy. A young man, rather, a good few years older than him. Rin wonders how he managed to get inside, seeing as it’s well past business hours for the club, but then he recalls those final few moments of consciousness just as he was about to black out, seeing someone staring down from the surface and just _watching_ him drown.

He screws up his features into a scowl, grousing between panted breaths, “You could’ve helped, just now.” What kind of a jerk just sits idly by while a little kid struggles for his life? He could’ve at least thrown Rin a ring or life vest or _something_ , or gone for help.

The man on the starting block just cocks his head, curiously, and explains in a soft, flat voice, “I’m not supposed to.”

“Whadya mean not _supposed_ to? Of course you’re supposed to help people,” Rin snaps, hopping along the pool bottom until he can reach the side, and when he clings close to the edge, he has to crane his head back to make eye contact. From this angle, the man’s crown is again limned in that still-flickering light that looks oddly like a halo, his face cast in shadow. “…Do I know you?”

“…The water really doesn’t like you.”

And suddenly Rin is five again and drowning, being tugged out to an unforgiving open ocean by a riptide, only fighting his way back from the teetering edge between life and death because an annoying voice insists that he’s _underestimated the water_ and that the _water doesn’t like him_. “I _do_ know you…” he breathes, tone awestruck, and before he can stop himself from asking something so utterly childish, he blurts out, “Are you my guardian angel?”

The look of irritation that flashes across the man’s face is answer enough. “Hardly.”

Rin shrugs and pushes away from the edge, treading water to work some feeling back into his still-weak limbs. “It was just a question; you show up at the weirdest times, just when I need you, so I thought maybe…” He dares a glance at the stranger. “…You’re sure you’re not…?”

The man’s irritated frown deepens. “…You shouldn’t swim alone.”

Rin hears the unspoken _Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?_ and rolls his eyes. “Well I’m not alone now; you’re here.” Granted, the stranger _has_ just said he isn’t allowed to help Rin, which still doesn’t make sense. “And anyway, I have to get my practice in while I can—the Spring Tournament’s at the end of the month, and this is the only time of day I can get a lane to myself.” He closes his eyes and floats onto his back. “I’ve gotta shave a second off my time to make up for Asahi’s crappy exchange, or we’re gonna get mutilated by the other teams.” He cracks one eye open. “…Wanna time me? That doesn’t count as helping, right? Just standing there with a stopwatch?”

The stranger wrinkles his nose. “I don’t care about times.”

“That’s stupid—everyone cares about times!” Unless, maybe this guy’s not a swimmer? But he keeps talking about underestimating the water, or claiming the water doesn’t like Rin, so Rin’s pretty sure he has _something_ to do with swimming. He paddles back over to the starting block, peering up with large eyes. “Don’t you care about beating others? Being the best?”

“No,” is the matter-of-fact reply, and Rin rolls his eyes.

“Boring. You ought to—it’s more fun that way.” He crosses his arms and rests his chin on them; his breathing has finally settled, and he’s almost forgotten in the course of their conversation that he very nearly died five minutes ago. “So are you gonna time me?”

“I don’t care ab—”

“Ugh, never mind.” Rin is starting to realize that the angel or whoever he is has a very limited vocabulary, with most of his go-to phrases being tedious lectures about water. “So why’re you here then, if you’re not gonna help me?” When the man doesn’t immediately respond, Rin glances over at him and catches him staring out across the pool. The surface is calm, now, no indication of what just transpired, and even the lamp overhead has stopped its flickering for the moment. “…Oh.” He swallows thickly and guesses the man really isn’t an angel after all.

“It’s not time yet,” is the only explanation he receives, and this settles Rin’s pulse a hair. He’s dodged a metaphorical bullet yet again, extending his lease on life.

Rin nods. “Well, good.” He flashes a nervous grin. “It’d suck if I had to die before I got to swim the relay with everyone!” But if the man can’t fathom the importance of times, he probably doesn’t understand what’s so great about the relay either. Rin heaves himself out of the water with no small effort—his running clothes are soaked through and cling tight to his body, weighing him down. Sitting on the edge to catch his breath, he reaches for the stopwatch he stored with his swim cap and goggles beside the starting block, waving it. “…Sure you can’t time me? Maybe it won’t be as boring as you think.”

There’s an actual flicker of guilt across those blank features, but it’s quickly schooled away. “…I have to go.”

“Oh.” Rin isn’t sure if he feels relieved or disappointed. “Well—will you come watch me swim the relay at the end of the month?” His gaze travels down to the goggles in his hands—the lenses are scratched from use, and the band is starting to crack and needs replacing, but he isn’t ready for a new pair just yet. Not yet. “I mean, my mom’ll be there, and my sister, and like half the school probably—but if you come, if you come watch, then…” He flashes a grin and glances back up. “I’ll show you a sight you’ve never seen be—”

But he’s all alone once again, and it’s only his own voice echoing off the high ceilings and rendered hollow by the sloshing water of the pool. “…fore,” he finishes softly, flicking his eyes around the room, just in case; but the man is gone.

He stands, stiffly, and inhales deeply as he takes stock of what’s just happened—before reasoning that, on second thought, it really doesn’t matter. He’s alive—that’s the important thing.

This isn’t where he dies, this isn’t how he goes. He’s young and he has his whole life ahead of him.

* * *

He’s fourteen-going-on-fifteen years old, and he isn’t sure how much more of this he can take. How many more meets he can stomach with his name dead last on the score board. How many more instances of being the last to struggle out of the pool it will take before it’s _just too much_.

His last letter to Sousuke was well before Christmas, and he didn’t even go home for New Year’s, claiming there was a training camp he wanted to take part in. There was no such camp, but the only thing worse than living the steady downslide into failure that is his life right now would be to have his mother and sister _realize_ it. 

It isn’t supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be _making something_ of himself out here. He’s supposed to be here, surrounded by top-caliber coaches and other boys his own age with their sights set on the world stage, just like him, and he’s supposed to gain encouragement from them, supposed to feed off of their drive and make it his own. He doesn’t have a rival—but that’s okay, because _everyone_ is supposed to be his rival.

And yet somehow, it’s just going all wrong. He doesn’t feel frustration and a desire to do better next time after losing a race—he just feels defeated, beaten down, like there won’t _be_ a next time. These boys who ought to be his teammates and greatest source of encouragement are merely insurmountable obstacles, reminders that the world is big and broad and there are so many people out there better than he is. He has no one in front of him beckoning him forward, only those who shove past him to leave him behind.

He ought to be at practice right now; it’s a Thursday, and every other Thursday are time trials. If he misses today’s races, he’ll be stuck at the bottom of the heap for the next two weeks—but he was probably going to wind up there anyway, so he doesn’t feel terribly guilty about complaining of a stomachache to be excused early.

The water lapping at his chest is warm, inviting—like an onsen, almost. It’s been soaking up the rays of the blazing south-Pacific sun all day, and he wishes the coaches let them do open-water practices more often. It seems such a shame not to take advantage of the location.

So despite the encroaching threat of sunset, less than an hour away, he decides it’s the perfect time for a swim. He isn’t practicing; if he’d wanted to practice, he would’ve stayed at the clubhouse, with its aseptic water and starting blocks for perfecting one’s dive and stopwatches and whistles. No, he just wants to _swim_. There’s something about the open ocean that’s calm and comforting; the knowledge of how wide the world is frightens him when he stops to think about it, but somehow the vastness of the ocean _doesn’t_. It’s deep and unforgiving, but—despite what _some_ people might think—it doesn’t have it out for Rin. There is no curse on his family; his father just ran afoul of bad weather, and his grandfather…well, he never quite learned how _he_ died, but Rin is sure it had nothing to do with ‘underestimating the water’ or the water ‘not liking’ him.

The swells are calm today, hardly a ripple further afield, and his strokes are long and lazy as he heads past the breakers, making for a buoy sitting a few hundred meters out. This stretch of beach is deserted at this hour, most of the beachgoers having retired for the day—or else never ventured this far from the stands and kiosks to begin with. Rin likes it just fine like that. He likes having time to think, to reflect. It never does any good, but he finds comfort in having his thoughts in order.

For a while, though, he just lets his mind wander; he thinks about how he ought to send Sousuke another letter or risk getting a passive-aggressive one in return, about how one of the boys in his class is inviting his closest friends to a water park for his birthday—and how Rin isn’t one of them, about the information packet sitting on his desk back at Russell and Lori’s place detailing the documents he’ll need to prepare whenever he’s ready to register for the National Team Trials.

But mostly he thinks about drowning.

Not dying—just drowning. He’s not suicidal, doesn’t have a death wish, it’s only—well, how can he _not_ think about it? Twice in his life so far he’s cheated death, though he sometimes wonders if it was really worth it—if _this_ was where he was going to end up. What’s the point in having fought so hard for breath only to stagnate here in these warm southern waters?

He’s glad his father is dead; he’d hate for him to see what Rin has sunk to. He used to hope that somewhere out there, in whatever afterlife there was, his dad was watching him, being proud of what he’d made of himself. He doesn’t feel that way anymore, though, and desperately hopes that everything just _ends_ when it’s all said and done.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the sky, dotted with streaks of clouds and the occasional gull passing overhead. It’s not so different, he thinks, from the skies over Iwatobi, and if he closes his eyes and imagines hard enough, he can fantasize that he isn’t here, floating alone in the open ocean thousands of kilometers from anyone who gives a crap about him or his childish dreams. He doesn’t know where he’d rather be, but just _not here_ would suffice.

He finally does close his eyes and inhales deeply. “…I hate it here,” he mutters to no one.

“Then go back to Japan,” someone answers, and Rin slips under the water, choking violently as he inhales salty bay water. He quickly rights himself, wiping at his eyes and trying to settle his breathing again, when the someone continues, “Or is that what you were trying to do?”

He blinks away the water stinging his eyes, squinting past the glare of the setting sun, and sees he’s made it out to the buoy—atop which a familiar figure is perched, staring down at him with an even, bored expression. “You…” is all he can say, because they haven’t exchanged names, and Rin wonders if he even _has_ one. He’s always called him _the Angel_ in his thoughts, but he knows that’s not accurate. He’ll have to resolve that one of these days. “You’re back,” he observes dumbly. “I…you disappeared last time…”

The stranger inclines his head, his only move to acknowledge any previous encounters they’ve had, and Rin paddles closer to the buoy, grabbing onto the slick handrails for balance as he floats beside it. They’re far out—further than Rin has ever swum on his own before—but the man’s clothing seems dry as a bone, and a quick glance around reveals no nearby boat that could have hauled him out here. “How’d you get out here?”

The man gives him a look that Rin has seen often enough before—irritation and _don’t be obtuse_. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Rin responds defensively, a twinge of pouting in his tone. He’d only been making conversation—but that thread is clearly unravelling. He twists around so he’s facing out across the bay, but dares a glance back up at the man. “So…did you come and watch me?”

“Watch you?”

“Yeah.” He thrusts his legs out and lazily kicks, wondering if he can push the buoy off course. “Remember? I asked you to come and watch me swim the relay with my team. Last time…?”

The stranger stares down at him, expression blank—but when he blinks his eyes, there’s a flash of guilt, which Rin finds somehow amusing. It makes him seem almost human. “…No.”

Rin’s lips thin as he presses them together and bites back any emotion threatening to well up, nodding his understanding. “Yeah… It’s probably for the best. We didn’t win, anyway, so I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

He won’t let the sour memory force tears from him—he already cried plenty when it happened, after all. He’d tried to stop the tears, but it had felt like everything that he’d somehow managed to keep tamped down since his father’s passing had finally just coalesced like the meeting of a dozen rivers and streams; alone, he could handle them, but together they were a raging torrent that bowled him over. So he’d wept, miserable and pathetic, because this was supposed to be his final _good_ memory before leaving. He was supposed to form this team and make friends he’d remember for the rest of his life—was supposed to hold on to that memory here, when everything felt like it was spiraling out of control, and use it to haul himself back up into the sunlight.

But they’d lost—and badly, too; hadn’t even managed a close second. That they’d made it to the finale alone had been a shock, so Rin shouldn’t have been surprised by their crushing loss. But he was, all the same, and the realization that he should’ve seen the loss coming, that his hours and hours of solo practice hadn’t done more than make them lose by six-tenths of a second less than they otherwise might have, had weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Asahi’s dad had tried to cheer them up, treating them to McDonald’s afterward and reminding them that there would be plenty of other races in their futures and that they’d done remarkably well for a team that had only just formed in the past month. Sousuke had done one better, though, grabbing a napkin and scrawling on it the names of the members of the teams they’d lost to, folding it up and placing it in Rin’s palm. “When you grow up, and you’re competing against other swimmers as an adult, you look at this and remember everyone you lost to as a kid—it’ll make finally winning against them all the sweeter.”

He’d said it with such conviction, like he _knew_ Rin would make something of himself eventually, that Rin couldn’t help feeling the same surety in his own bones. That was all that kept him going sometimes: how _sure_ Sousuke had seemed that Rin would make it to the top.

It’s hard sometimes to remember that conviction—but the reappearance of the stranger ignites something in him, makes the allure of the unknown, of what else there might _be_ for him, that much stronger.

“So…you’re here for me?” He winces inwardly—why does his tone sound so _hopeful_? Nanase gives him a single nod, and Rin both loves and hates the warmth that blossoms in his chest; it’s nice, just now, knowing that someone is here, right here, focused on _him_. He knows it’s selfish and self-centered—and more than a little morbid, all things considered—but he doesn’t hate it. “Well—sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t feel like dying today.”

“Weren’t you just complaining that you hate it here?”

Rin shrugs, leaning against the buoy. “…I do. But it feels like giving up.” He may be a lot of things, but he’s no quitter, and even if he goes out on the bottom rung, barely pulling a minute in his Freestyle times and worse on Butterfly, he doesn’t want it to be said of him that he just _gave up_. Australia isn’t going to beat him—try as it might.

A gull cries for its mate, and the man reminds him with soft threat, “You don’t really have any choice in the matter; if it’s meant to happen, it will.”

And that’s irritatingly close to a lecture, so Rin grabs onto the bars and hauls himself up onto the buoy, nearly unbalancing it. “Oh yeah? So then how come I’m not dead yet?”

Dark eyes bore into him, unsettling, and Rin wonders if he can read Rin’s thoughts. “…You’re meant to drown on the way back to shore.” Oh; that kills some of the wind in his sails. “You’re too far out to make it back without tiring, and too emotional to pace yourself.”

“I am _not_ —” Rin starts, before realizing he’s simply proving the stranger right, and he slumps back against the railing. “…That doesn’t seem very fair.”

He expects a needling retort or lecturing reminder that _life isn’t fair_ , so he’s a bit thrown when he gets, “No, I suppose not,” instead.

Rin squints back at the shore; he hadn’t thought he was all that far out initially—he’s been further out before, when swimming with a group while their coaches puttered along in boats beside them—but the light’s just beginning to fail, and he isn’t quite recovered yet from the swim out here. If he waits too long, though, he’ll be swimming at dusk, and he’s lived in Australia long enough to know that’s not smart at all.

He swallows, clenching the railing tighter, and glances up at the stranger. “So what happens if I make it back?” The man just blinks at him, and Rin rephrases. “What if I don’t drown?”

The momentary flash of confusion vanishes, though, replaced by the familiar sour frown: “Don’t underestimate the water.” Rin doesn’t know if this is a lecture or encouragement, but he chooses to take it as the latter, bracing himself so he can get a good push-off.

“Hey,” he calls out, brushing the hair away from his face when a breeze whips up. “What’s your name?”

The pause that follows is long, and Rin despairs that if he glances back, the stranger will be gone, vanished like before. “…Nanase.”

“Nanase?” Rin wrinkles his nose. “That’s all?” He’d thought it would be something grand, something in a language he’s never heard of—a name that can’t be written with any human alphabet. ‘Nanase’ sounds so… _normal_. He tugs his cap back on, tucking his hair under. “You got a given name?”

“…I’ve forgotten.”

“Mm,” Rin allows with a nod, adjusting his goggles. Nanase’s good enough for now; but it still feels too formal. “Well try to remember it for next time.” Because there’s going to be a next time.

This isn’t where he dies, this isn’t how he goes. He’s young and he has his whole life ahead of him.

* * *

He’s twenty-two years old and on top of the world.

He wakes early the day after the plane back from London touches down; jet lag, he supposes, but he feels refreshed and wide awake and still vibrating with energy. That feeling hasn’t left him since slapping the wall in the 100-meter Butterfly finale and glancing up to see _R. MATSUOKA_ with a ‘1’ flashing beside it. It’s not relay gold, like he’s always wanted, but it’s _gold_ , and it’s his, and he’s finally done something for himself instead of trying to carry his father’s dream. Even the haunting strains of _Kimi Ga Yo_ had sounded soothing and calming, and he’d slept most of the 30-plus hour trip back to Narita. Maybe that’s why he’s so awake now.

That, or the _shinigami_ sitting seiza-style on the matting by his bed, leafing idly through the collection of newspaper clippings Rin has gathered from his globetrotting—his mother’s into scrapbooking these days, and she’d all but begged even though she probably can’t even pronounce the names of some of the countries he’s competed in over the past two years.

He grimaces as he rubs at his eyes, forcing himself upright and twisting in place to stretch his tense muscles. “G’morning…” he greets simply, just trying it out. He hasn’t had anyone to say that to for years now, and he’s missed it. It doesn’t feel as stupid or childish as he thought it might, so he doesn’t feel all that irritated when Nanase doesn’t return the greeting. “You ever hear of knocking?”

“You think I came in through the door?” Rin snorts at this, shaking his head; no, he supposes he didn’t. “…You’ve been busy.”

Rin shrugs. “Cheating death a few times gives you a confidence boost. Finally got my act together when I stopped trying to impress a dead guy and started living for myself.” He shakes a finger. “No more stupid near-misses in the pool or emotional outbursts a kilometer from shore, I’m afraid.”

He settles back against the wall his bed butts up against and watches Nanase reading one of the articles intently. It’s an interview he remembers giving after the last Pan-Pacific; he’d only managed silver in both his races, losing to an American and a Canadian—which somehow stung his pride more than losing to one of the Australian cohort might have—but it’d been his first medal on the international stage, and he’d been lauded by local media as a rising star, someone to watch in his future endeavors.

It’s both strange, and yet startlingly not, how little Nanase has changed over the years. Nearly two decades have passed since he first heard that annoying voice in his head reminding him not to underestimate the water, yet Nanase hasn’t aged a day, and finally they seem of an age. It’s kind of eerie in a way, seeing Nanase as a peer rather than a mysterious adult figure, but it’s also intriguing. Rin wouldn’t mind seeing the guy suited up and standing on the starting block next to him. Then he’d finally learn just how much of that _the water doesn’t like you_ drivel was BS and how much of it was rendered from experience.

He shifts out of bed, limping on legs that are still smarting from the workout he’s given them over the past few days, and shuffles into his kitchen for a glass of tea, wondering if he ought to offer his guest any before deciding it will only earn him one of Nanase’s now familiar _Seriously?_ looks. He drains a whole glass and refills it halfway, then saunters back into his bedroom, setting the glass on top of one of the articles littering his coffee table. “So did you ever remember?”

Nanase daintily lifts the glass before it can leave a ring on the clipping and sets it back down. “Remember what?”

“Your given name.” He doesn’t know why he’s so adamant about names these days; he spent years just thinking of Nanase as _the Angel_ , after all. But somehow, being able to put a name to this face he’s spent his whole life catching glimpses of makes Nanase seem more…human. Tangible. Someone he can reach out and interact with as easily as he can the old woman who lives one floor below him and often shares a grilled sweet potato with him. It’s still not clear to him why this tangibility is important, why he _wants_ Nanase to seem more human—maybe it makes the idea of death easier to stomach, if it’s packaged in a familiar form.

Regardless, Nanase—and Nanase alone—has seen him at his lowest, his most desperate, has seen the ugliness as he flails for life both physically and emotionally. And Rin hasn’t scared him off yet. That in itself is alluring, and Rin thinks that deep down, he’s always admired Nanase for that. So he wants to be closer to him, that’s all.

Nanase frowns at the reminder, but not in disappointment or confusion—only hesitation, and after he carefully licks his lips and takes a breath, he allows, “…Haruka.”

“Haruka?” Rin repeats, and he wants to laugh—because he hadn’t thought he’d ever find someone with a name as girly as his own. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d grown up with Nanase properly, as a classmate or a peer or even just a passing acquaintance. He thinks there used to be a gangly kid named ‘Makoto’ at some of his early competitions, and wouldn’t they have made a trio? “Nanase Haruka… How about ‘Haru’?” He twitches, a little grimace flashing over his features, but he doesn’t object—and it’s settled.

The newly minted ‘Haru’ glances around Rin’s room now; his apartment is tiny, but he keeps it fairly neat. It helps that he spends half his time these days in hotel rooms and inside cabins of trains and planes and buses as he’s carted from country to country, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. The world, which used to seem so wide and intimidating, now beckons and challenges. He merely lacked the confidence before to accept it. He isn’t the fastest—there will always be someone out there who just hasn’t been tested yet or who’s got the potential to best him; but it’s not frightening or worrying anymore. Whether he intended to or not, Haru helped him see that. It’s only on the verge of losing something that you realize how much you truly want it.

“…It’s so far from the ocean,” is Haru’s only observation, and Rin grudgingly agrees with him. After spending so much of his life near one beach or another, being able to ride a bike or just hop a bus and feel sand beneath his toes in a matter of minutes, life in a concrete high-rise is a little suffocating. He spends enough time on the road that he’s never stuck here so long that it really gets unbearable, but leave it to Haru to offer critique on location based on its proximity (or lack thereof) to water.

Rin shrugs, glancing around and trying to see his apartment as Haru does. “It is; but it’s close to my new club, and I don’t exactly have a good track record with the ocean anyway, so…”

“You don’t have a good track record with pools either,” Haru returns pointedly.

“Hey, I learned my lesson; I am the poster child for ‘no running by the pool’ now.”

Haru offers a small smile, running a finger over the flashy headline of an article that reads _MATSUOKA TAKES FLIGHT FOR BUTTERFLY 100 METER GOLD_ in bold type. This is nice, Rin thinks; small talk with Haru. He’s always been in a bad place when they’ve ‘chatted’ before, but he’s finally okay with things now. Finally comfortable in his own skin.

But pleasant as their idle conversation is, it’s also telling; Haru has never wanted to engage in such chit-chat before, has always seemed to loathe any banter Rin has tried to pull him into. That he’s so indulgent this time merely means that he’s stalling.

“So…what’re you doing here?” Rin finally comes out with it, forcing a smile. “There’s no water around, as you may have noticed—finally succumbing to my charm after all these years of stalking me and seizing your chance to hang out with a medalist?” He quirks his brows, trying to diffuse the tension, but he’s conscious of the way his heartbeat advances a tick. Haru is dangerous, when it comes down to it—Death incarnate, no matter how appealing the packaging, is still Death.

Haru reaches for Rin’s forgotten glass of tea, tracing designs in the condensation, stalling so long that Rin just wants to shake him and tell him to come out with it. “I’ve…been lax in my duties.” Haru swallows, takes a breath. “And I’m here to rectify my tardiness now.”

Oh. And Rin’s smile now is no longer forced, but wryer for it. He slumps back onto his mattress and stares up at the popcorn ceiling. “…I really was supposed to drown when I was five, huh…?” Haru doesn’t respond, but the silence is telling. He’s always felt, his whole life, like he was living on borrowed time, so it’s kind of relieving knowing that, in a way, he has been.

He figures at this point, with this kind of news facing them, most people might rage or object or try to bargain with the instrument of their demise, but Haru has always been stony-faced and straight-laced, and Rin doubts any of that would work on him. Plus, he doesn’t really want to try that. He’s done what he came to do, shown up his old teammates back in Australia and crossed off every name on that crumpled old napkin of Sousuke’s that he finally got framed last winter. His mother is comfortable back in Iwatobi, and Gou is finishing up a degree in Sports Nutrition, and Rin…Rin’s just won Gold in the stroke he vowed to dominate so long ago.

He has no regrets—not for the life he’s lived, at least. He wishes lots of impossibilities—that his dad had come home safe after that storm, that he’d lost the 100-meter freestyle race in elementary school to someone faster who might’ve turned into his rival, that he’d found a magical relay team that could have helped him through those dark, rough years he’d nearly lost himself, instead of having to struggle back to the light on his own. But they’re impossibilities, so he can’t really regret never having had those chances. His life is what he’s made of it, and he’s…satisfied. Not really happy, not after everything’s said and done, but satisfied. It’s the best he could hope for, and from the top of the world where he stands now, it’s all downhill.

He has no regrets, no, but… He shifts back upright, hands in his lap and staring down at his fingernails. “…Give me today? Just…to get everything in order.” He knows this isn’t much better than the people who rail against death, raging against the dying of their lights, but he figures if Haru has dragged his feet for _this_ long in loosening Rin from his mortal coil, he can wait a little longer. “What’s another 12 or so hours, between friends?” He cracks a toothy smile, and Haru stares at him with that silent, stony frown—so to sweeten the deal, he extends a hand. “Come spend the day with me.”

He’s learned by now that if he wants Haru to do something, it’s important to never give him a choice, so when Haru is slow to respond, whether to accept or reject the offer, Rin grabs him by the wrist and tugs him upright, enjoying the flash of panic on Haru’s features as they both nearly topple over. “Live a little, Haru.”

It’s his last chance, after all.

* * *

He decides, if it’s going to be his last day on earth, he wants a _real_ breakfast, so instead of reheating some rice from three days ago and choking down a glass of milk that expired last week, he opts to take Haru down to a pancake place he’s been to a few times before and splurge. He’s not one for sweets, but the pancakes come with salty, greasy sides like eggs and bacon that he’s learned to love in his time abroad, so he spares the syrup and just inhales a stack of three while Haru picks at his single serving.

“Fish is a proper breakfast…” he mutters, and Rin rolls his eyes and steals the last bite of his pancake.

“Then feel free to eat fish for the rest of eternity or however long you’re stuck doing your job badly.” Haru cuts him a glare, and Rin raises a brow in challenge. “It’s my day, today.” He wonders if he annoys Haru enough, will he just snap his fingers and do away with their deal, but the urge to ruffle the feathers of someone who seems entirely too serious is too much to pass up, so he flirts with death, as it were.

He doesn’t have a lot of loose ends, when he stops to think about it. He’s not going to waste time or raise red flags after the fact by doing anything with his assets—his family will take care of it, though he hates to leave them with the burden. He calls up Gou, biting back a smile when she answers with a cheery, breathless, “ _Morning, Oniichan!_ ” following a hissed, _”Stop tha—it’s Oniichan! Shh!”_ He doesn’t entirely approve of her dating _anyone_ , but Sousuke’s a decent guy who’ll do right by her (or face Rin’s wrath from the afterlife), though it’s kind of amusing that she thinks she’s being at all subtle about it.

He requests a lunch date, knowing she doesn’t have lectures until the late afternoon, and she agrees. He thinks about suggesting she bring Sousuke along—two birds with one stone and all that—but he knows that if he sees Sousuke in person, if Sousuke looks into his eyes, he’ll be done for. Sousuke can see right through him, even when Rin can’t, so he’ll _know_ something’s wrong, and he won’t let up until Rin has spilled his guts.

After he hangs up, he texts Sousuke a short _Real subtle_ , chuckling when his phone buzzes five seconds later with _I learned from the best_. He thinks he ought to say something meaningful, like _Take care of her_ , but that would only arouse suspicion, especially after the fact, so he just leaves it at that—not the most meaningful of goodbyes, but one that suits them. They’ve never been very good with those anyway.

They stop by a flower shop, and Rin spends an hour browsing the bouquets before asking if he can have one custom-made for later delivery, and another half hour later, he’s prepared something suitably gaudy, all sweet peas and chrysanthemums and cherry blossom twigs (though he concedes that they’ll have to be fake, being out of season and all) with a single red rose and a card that simply reads _A Thousand Winds_. He forward-dates the order three months and requests to remain anonymous—his mother never knowing when or where it came from. He doesn’t imagine it’ll help soothe her wounded soul in the least, losing both a husband and a son too soon, but she’s strong, like all of the women in his family, and hopefully she’ll gain some further measure of strength from the gesture.

They meet Gou for a light lunch at a coffeehouse near her campus, and she looks dazzling in the late summer sun, her hair pulled up into a high, messy bun and a light smattering of freckles across her nose evidence of her time spent ogling her muscle-bound classmates as they run the track. She’s prim and proper but ready with an easy smile when she notices Haru shadowing him, and he introduces Haru as “a member of a club I’m gonna be transferring to soon”. It isn’t a lie, he tells himself, but he still feels a twinge of guilt when she cheerily delivers her own introduction, thanking Haru for always taking care of Rin.

Gou is perfectly happy to fill the silence between their trio with idle chatter, complaining about her classes and workload and how everyone’s already talking about getting internships with local sports teams—and is the National Team maybe perhaps possibly looking for anyone? Rin waves her off, stubborn. “You’re not using me to get a leg-up in the world; start at the bottom and work your way up like everyone else!” He’s firm, but can’t help the smile when she rolls her eyes. She wouldn’t have accepted his help even if he’d offered it, they both know, but it’s fun to pretend.

It’s when she starts talking about how Rin missed Obon this year because of London and that she’s so proud of how he’s done and how she’s sure their dad would be too, that it finally hits him what he’ll be leaving behind. He’ll never get to listen to Gou ramble on about how the teams at her university could probably encourage more protein powder consumption if they flavored it strawberry, will never get to share another fist-bump with Sousuke, will never get to hug his mother again and apologize for worrying her all those years in Australia and leaving her behind to chase after a dream. He won’t see another sunrise while finishing up a pre-dawn jog, he won’t get to finish that book Russell loaned him on his last visit to Sydney. Suddenly, one day isn’t enough—he isn’t ready, he isn’t _ready_ —

“Ohmygosh, Oniichan—don’t cry! I’ll start crying if you cry! Come on, pull yourself together!” she laughs, voice tight as she rubs his shoulders, and he smiles and shakes his head, letting her think it’s just a wave of emotion from thinking about their dad—and not a momentary lapse in conviction. He doesn’t have a choice in the matter, Haru’s told him before, and he wouldn’t want Haru to think less of him for trying to shirk his ‘duty’ now. It’s just the last dregs of his humanity, tugging insistently.

He collects himself and blinks back any tears, forcing a smile. “Sorry; guess my emotions are still on the fritz with this hellish schedule and everything.”

“Well you’ve more than earned some rest, I think; when do practices start up again?”

He grimaces. “There’s a training camp next weekend. Those of us just back from London don’t _have_ to take part, but…”

“But you’ll be there with bells on,” she finishes knowingly, and he flicks a few sprinkles of water her way, grinning when she yelps in offense. “So mean! You know it’s true.”

“I can rest when I’m dead,” he reminds haughtily, and now it’s Gou’s turn to roll her eyes.

He pays the tab and kisses her on the cheek, and she teases him for picking up bad habits abroad, embarrassing her. Then with only a backwards wave, she slips into the throng of students heading to campus, and Rin watches until well after she’s disappeared.

Haru draws up alongside him, their arms brushing, and stares after Gou in silence, for which Rin is exceedingly grateful.

Haru never hurries him, the whole day, just quietly plods along next to him, glancing about to take in his surroundings from time to time, and Rin wonders how long he’s been doing this, or if he’s never really had the chance to just wander around and take in the sights. It seems a shame; Haru seems so closed off and distant, but maybe he could come alive given the proper stimulation. Or maybe that would be the worst thing for him; maybe he needs this cool detachment to be able to do what he does.

Rin wants to ask him so many things—but it’s not time, quite yet. He’ll wind up dwelling on the answers and ruining what’s left of his day, so he resolves to wait until the bitter end.

He should probably send something to Russell and Lori, but even a simple postcard would bear a postmarked date that might make them wonder at the coincidence, so he prays a silent apology and hopes they forgive him for not writing more. He has a few souvenirs from London he’d meant to send—a sampler set of perfumes from a fancy boutique and a stuffed bear dressed in guardsman garb—so maybe if he pens a note along the lines of _remember to ship to Russell and Lori_ , Gou or Sousuke will take care of it for him later. It’s a paltry farewell gift, but it’s all he can manage.

On their walk back to his apartment, they pass his club, and Rin toys momentarily with the idea of getting a final few laps in. He hasn’t taken a dip since being hauled out by his ecstatic teammates back in London after all—though he kind of likes the idea of his very last time in a pool being that amazing race. He considers challenging Haru to a race instead, but decides against it in the end. He wants to go out with no regrets, and he’s sure if he races Haru, he’ll feel nothing but bitterness over what might have been.

The sun is starting to set, painting the sky over in lavender and coral; if this has to be his last time seeing the sun, it’s not such a bad sight. As he stalks up the stairs back to his room, his feet are starting to hurt from traipsing around all day, and he could stand a soak too, but he’s on a schedule here, and there’s still one last thing he wants to do.

He tosses his bag on the table waiting in the genkan, lifting out of his shoes and shuffling into his room as he starts to peel off his shirt. He can hear Haru behind him, busying himself with a similar ritual, and it’s as he’s starting to stretch his triceps that he finally comes out with it: “I want to have sex, before I go.”

Haru pauses, one shoe still half-laced, and blinks silently—before he begins re-lacing. “…Do I need to accompany you for that too? Or can you manage on your own?”

Rin snorts derisively, striding over, and he grabs Haru by the wrist to tug him into his room, shoving him towards the bed as Rin crouches down to remove the newly re-laced shoe. “I mean with _you_.” He takes his time with the task, giving Haru plenty of time to refuse, provided he even understands what Rin’s requesting.

“…Why?”

Rin shrugs. “No one wants to die a virgin, right? And I figure if I have to go, you can take me when I’m all blissed-out from orgasm, that way I won’t feel a thing.”

“I meant…” Haru starts, and Rin knows what he meant; he hadn’t clarified because he isn’t entirely sure _why_ he wants it to be Haru—he only knows that it’s always been Haru, his whole life, so shouldn’t it be Haru _now_? Every moment he’s stood on some precipice of change, every time he’s found himself facing down death, Haru has always been there, as a voice or a face or a body. So it only makes sense that he should be all of those things now, when Rin is on the verge of dying for the final time.

“Just once,” Rin wheedles, brows raised as he tugs off Haru’s shoe. “And then I promise I’ll go quietly.”

Haru seems to war internally for a few moments, as with everything, but he quickly comes to some resolution, for he nods shortly—and then grabs Rin firmly by the shoulders and flips him around until he’s flat-back on his own mattress, staring up at that popcorn ceiling again in confusion as Haru shifts to straddle him.

“I should warn you, I’m inexperienced in such matters,” Haru confesses bluntly as he methodically begins to remove Rin’s shirt with one hand while the other fumbles at the snap on Rin’s pants, and Rin whips back to attention.

“Whoa whoa—hold up, uh—” He tries to slap away Haru’s hand in protest—this is not how he’d imagined this going at all, and does it even _count_ as losing your virginity if you’re not the one sticking it in? He wants to _enjoy_ this, not shuffle off the mortal coil with his ass on fire. He’s never even _fantasized_ about—well, okay, maybe a little fantasy now and then, but it’s all been in his head. He tried touching himself there once, and it just felt weird and invasive, and he isn’t even sure he’s gonna be able to get off like tha— “ _Shhhi—_ ” he starts sharply when Haru abruptly palms him through his boxer-briefs, brushing questing fingers around the bulge of his balls, and then decides they can discuss the logistics of what goes in which hole later. There are plenty of ways to enjoy each other’s bodies without worrying about top-bottom orientation, after all.

He finally succeeds in gently guiding Haru’s hands away from their fumbling—he really _is_ inexperienced, it seems—and strips off his shirt and pants while motioning for Haru to do the same. His shirt smells faintly of sweat and still radiates warmth from the long day, and he knows he ought to take a shower (they both should, probably) before they go any further, but he’s feeling suddenly impatient, and Haru has a dark glint in his eye that’s honestly pretty hot, so if Haru isn’t going to insist they wash up, Rin’s not going to bring it up.

He tosses his clothes into his laundry pile, leaving his underwear on for the time being; despite what they’re about to do, he’s not entirely comfortable with putting _all_ of himself on display quite yet. Haru, though, evidently has no qualms or modesty, as he shimmies out of his underwear and goes to work on his socks, bare ass resting atop Rin’s comforter. It’s a nice ass, from what Rin can tell, and he kind of wants to knead it, fingers itching to bury themselves in that pale expanse of flesh and mark it up.

He swallows thickly, making a conscious effort to even his breathing; he worries for a moment that he’s going to come on too strong and turn Haru off—but this misconception is quickly dispelled when Haru takes himself in one hand, using rough jerks to bring himself to hardness, while shoving Rin back down onto his back with the other and remounting. “What the—hold on, hold on!”

He lifts a knee to keep Haru from advancing any further and receives an irritated scowl in return. “Are you stalling?” Haru has the gall to ask, and Rin scoffs.

“ _Stalling_? No—but this isn’t how you’re supposed to do it!”

And now Haru’s ears pink a bit, as if he hadn’t considered that he might be breaking some manner of bedroom rules or regulations. “I know what I’m doing,” he protests weakly, sliding off of Rin.

“Thought you said you were inexperienced…” Rin mutters, running fingers through his hair. Haru certainly gets down to business with the confidence of someone who’s done this many a time before, but his technique is totally lacking in finesse. Rin’s heard enough porn through thin dorm walls and watched the occasional racy movie to understand that he’s perfectly within his rights to expect at least a _little_ foreplay. They aren’t lovers, but that doesn’t mean this has to be totally business.

“I am; but I’ve seen it before. It doesn’t look that difficult.”

Rin raises a hand to stop him before he digs himself any deeper. “That’s…yeah, okay. I appreciate the effort, but…it’s _my_ last hurrah. Maybe let me direct the show?” Haru raises a brow dubiously, but at least he’s not yanking on his cock anymore, hands now primly folded in his lap as if awaiting further orders.

Rin looks him over; he’s built solidly enough, though he lacks the definition that Rin has achieved over the years to give him the power his stroke requires. His shoulders are narrower, but the line of his neck is smoother leading into the slender curve of his collarbone, and just like with his ass, Rin wants to reach out and _touch_ , to run his tongue along that line and into the crook of his shoulder. He wonders what Haru smells like—pool water, the ocean? Or something altogether different and supernatural?

He shifts forward, angling Haru so that he can get a good look, and as he’s appreciating the broad, flat expanse of his chest and the pert, dusky nipples, Haru asks close to his ear, “Do you want to kiss me?”

It sounds so straightforward and serious, a genuine question rather than a teasing invitation, and it’s not sexy at all, but now that the suggestion’s been made, he can’t help but consider it. Rin’s eyes snap up to meet Haru’s, and he barely manages to keep himself from licking his lips. Haru already knows he wants this; he doesn’t need to know how _badly_. “You don’t mind?” Haru just shrugs, as if Rin has merely asked to borrow a pencil.

He hesitates a moment, fearing that Haru will tackle him again now that he’s shown interest, but it seems he’s heeding Rin’s request to be in charge of how things go this evening. “Close your eyes,” he instructs softly.

“Why?”

“Because—it’s creepy with you staring at me like that.”

“Like what?” Rin responds with an irritated grunt and covers Haru’s lips with this own, bringing his hands up to grip Haru’s shoulder and hold him steady so they don’t topple backwards.

Rin has kissed a grand total of three people in his life—Asahi, on a dare; Lori’s niece, one family reunion; and the Spanish competitor in the 100-meter Butterfly preliminaries at the last World Championships—Javier? Jesús?

So he’s not entirely inexperienced—and that Spanish swimmer in particular upped his game several notches. He worries initially that Haru might fight him, protesting bodily now that Rin’s shut him up, but quite the opposite, he drops his jaw open a hair and responds magnificently to Rin, as if he can anticipate Rin’s every move. This ignites a flash of panic—Haru isn’t even _human_ , what does Rin know about what he can and can’t do?—and he pulls away with a sharp gasp, but Haru just follows him, protesting the interruption of the kiss with a breathy, “What’re you…” before grabbing Rin by the back of the neck, burying his fingers in the strands feathering his nape, and slotting their lips together again.

Haru shifts onto his knees, trying once again to guide Rin onto his back, and Rin nearly lets it happen, heart thudding noisily against his rib cage as Haru’s tongue dips between his lips to meet his own. He’s a fast learner, frighteningly so, and evidently difficult to stop once he gets going. Rin holds his position, muscles starting to cramp, as he lets the kiss wind down before pulling away more gently this time. Their foreheads rest together, and Haru’s too close for Rin to make out more than the dark pools of his eyes. “…You catch on quick,” he remarks lightly, and Haru’s brows lift a hair, a nearly imperceptible sign of his appreciation for the compliment.

Rin wouldn’t honestly mind making out for a while, but Haru’s shift from a cold furnace to merrily piping hot after just a few gropes and smooches has him curious what further ratcheting up the intensity might do. He’s spent years wanting Haru to show at least a _flash_ of emotion—if he’d known this was all it took…well, he wouldn’t have tried it sooner, but he might have opened with it this morning and just spent his entire final day fooling around.

Haru traces the line of his jaw, cocking his head. “You’re done?”

“I wanna try something else.” He gestures to the bed, “Get on your back—and spread your legs.” Haru hesitates for only a moment, raking Rin over with a wary glance before complying, and his legs flop open unabashedly, all his charms on display. Rin shuffles over between them, running his palms over Haru’s knees first and then down his thighs to brush his fingers through the thin dusting of hair around his cock. The skin pebbles, but Haru just lies there unmoving, watching Rin work with passive interest.

He works up a film of spit in his mouth, laving a long stripe over one palm, and begins to gently work the shaft. The air is close and warm in his room without a window open or the fan running, but it’s probably still a little chilly on the bits, so Rin leans close and opens wide, covering the exposed flesh with a warm breath of air. There’s a sharp little intake of breath, and Haru’s hips tremble jerkily, but he doesn’t thrust up, nor does he complain.

Rin smirks to himself, carefully working the shaft in his palm—he needs Haru at least a little hard, before he tries this. He’s never done this on another person, but he’s managed not to embarrass himself on the occasional cucumber or carrot, and if not now, then when _is_ he ever gonna try this for real?

He makes a first tentative swipe over the head with the tip of his tongue, just in case Haru tastes terrible—but it doesn’t taste like anything, so he takes a breath and just goes for it, mouthing the whole head at once and going as far down as he can. His technique may be terrible—but Rin doubts there’s a guy alive (or dead, or whatever Haru counts as) who doesn’t appreciate a warm, tight mouth around their dick, and he’s rewarded with a soft keening cry of shock as Haru’s legs clamp tight against his sides.

He pulls back before he gags himself, still gently massaging the shaft but mostly focusing on his tongue work. He memorizes the only cock he’s ever going to have had the pleasure to suck, tracing the veins and ridges and slits and dips that he finds and rewarding Haru’s patience in his ventures by taking him in as deep as he can and humming softly. Haru squeezes his shoulders and braces his legs alongside Rin, occasionally reaching down to touch himself and grunting in annoyance when Rin guides his hands away. He pulls off for only a moment to remind through plump, reddened lips, “Just sit back and enjoy this—I know I am.”

“You’re…definitely stalling now…” Haru complains pathetically, one arm thrown over his eyes.

“No, I’m sucking you off.” He frowns at the implication. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“Of course—” Haru starts, then catches himself. He lifts onto his elbows and reminds sourly, “You said you wanted to have sex. I fail to see how this is necessary—”

“I said I wanted to have sex with _you_ ,” Rin clarifies, swiping his thumb over Haru’s tip and giving a chastising squeeze. “If I just wanted to get off, I could jerk myself off and be done with it. I want this to mean something.”

Haru’s frown waxes confused. “Mean something? Mean what?”

Rin snorts softly, muttering to himself, “I’ll let you know when I figure that out,” as he places weight on Haru’s chest to guide him back down. “I _want_ it to feel good. For both of us.” He quirks his brows. “Romantic, right?” and Haru glances away with a huff of annoyance.

He goes back to the business of sucking Haru, and this time there are no more protests and Haru is freer with his responses. Rin angles himself so that he can watch Haru’s reactions out of the corner of his eye as he tongues the head and traces the great vein of the shaft, suckling insistently to draw Haru from his stony shell. It’s fascinating, seeing him blossom from a quiet, passive bud into something so warm and human and responsive, and Rin can feel himself growing painfully hard in his underwear, the fabric tight over heated, stiffening flesh that he hasn’t touched in weeks. His cock bobs in time with each little twitch of Haru’s chin or jut of his hips, and he distracts his hands from reaching down to palm himself by tugging gently on the thin skin covering Haru’s balls.

Haru pounds the mattress with one hand, reaching out weakly with the other to push Rin away, and he immediately pulls off, gripping Haru tight about the base—he doesn’t want Haru to come just yet, wants them both to enjoy this with the same degree of desperation when climax finally bears down upon them.

“Let—me go…” Haru grunts, hips canting upward and batting feebly at Rin’s fingers, until he’s distracted by the sight of the bulge filling Rin’s underwear. He shifts up onto his elbows, maneuvering around, “I’ll do you… Is that what you want, in exchange?”

He’s already reaching for the elastic band at Rin’s waist—and Rin smoothly slips away, shifting onto shaky feet and barely avoiding toppling backwards over his low table. “No—no that…won’t be…” It had been the idea initially, of course, but sitting here sucking on Haru and listening to the sounds he’s making, seeing him slowly unravel, has done a number on his restraint. He needs more from Haru than just a mouth on him now.

His heart is fluttering dangerously fast, and his dick is throbbing, desperate for some manner of attention—but more than that, he’s enthralled with Haru like this. Dark and flushed and irritated at being denied release, he’s just lying there, waiting for Rin to tell him what to do next. Rin can have _anything_ he wants right now, truly—Haru really does seem to respond to orders more obediently than requests. If Rin told him to roll over and spread himself, he’d do it; and if, for whatever reason, Rin flopped down on his own back and directed him to ‘get to it’, Haru would similarly act without protest.

And Rin’s abruptly realizing that while he doesn’t want Haru just charging in like a bull in a china shop, he equally doesn’t want to sleep with a limber, pliant doll who’ll do exactly what Rin wants but nothing else. He wants a partner who’ll express desire and lust to the same degree as Rin, or more so even. He wants to have sex because he wants to _have sex_ , sure, but he wants to have sex with _Haru_ because he can see the potential in Haru. He can see the flash of stubborn fight in his glare and downturned scowl, can hear the challenge in his voice every time he questions or protests, can feel him as a real, physical _force_ that Rin must grapple with in every shift of muscle or shove or brace. And Rin wants all of that from Haru, right now— _that_ ’s his final wish.

He paces the room, gathering his thoughts as he takes a moment to collect himself; he’s teetering on the point of no return, and he doesn’t want this to end like an eager fumble in the changing rooms or an alley in 2-chome. He wants to savor this, and wants Haru to experience that final moment—to share in that so-called ‘small death’—with him. He casts about, trying to remember where he stashed his lube, before finally finding it stuffed inside a black matte plastic bag in a bedside drawer. It’s half-empty, but it’s plenty for the evening’s deed. He frowns for a moment on realizing he’s never bought condoms in his life, and that the only one in his possession was given to him as a joke when he came of age and is, by now, expired.

But then he wonders—does he even really _need_ condoms? It’s not like he or Haru can get pregnant, and what disease can Haru possibly give him that will take Rin’s life sooner than Haru himself will? They can manage without—and if Rin’s only going to have sex once in his life, if this really is _it_ , he wants it as real and raw as possible.

He uncaps and recaps the lubricant in succession as he fidgets, nervously glancing down at Haru, who’s still watching him with that same borderline creepy interest. It’s not suggestive or anything, it’s just so _alert_ and attentive, and Rin will confess that some part of him responds to that. He’s probably always wanted Haru’s full and complete attention, on some level—it’s just now that he’s got it, he isn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

“What now?” Haru asks, one knee pulled up and his plump, dark cock resting comfortably over his stomach. Rin wants to ask him the same thing.

He’d had the evening mapped out in his head—known what he wanted to happen and how. But the way Haru’s watching him, like a big cat sizing up his prey, has him considering alternatives that seem remarkably more intriguing now that he’s hard and hot for release.

Truthfully, the more he thinks about it, the more he kind of wishes they had time to do it _both_ ways, because much as he’d like to just sink into a warm, dark channel tighter than any mouth and more intimate than any hand, equally tempting is the chance to have Haru pin him with that gaze and demonstrate in living color what he looks like when he’s charging headlong for that precipice and _wants_ to fly off of it. Rin wants to experience everything possible, if he’s only going to have this one chance—but that’s a slippery slope, one that could encourage him to want even _more_ : just one full night together, just one sunrise of morning breath and groping in the shower, just one afternoon all to themselves. So he has to make a choice—

“I want you to do me.”

The words fall more easily from his lips than he expected, and maybe it really wasn’t much of a choice at all. He’s already admitted to himself that it’s less about having sex and more about having sex with _Haru_ , and he’s jerked himself off plenty of times before but never had anyone he trusted to be that intimate with. He doesn’t exactly trust Haru, either, but what can Haru do to him really that death won’t eclipse?

Plus…it’s nice. He likes finally having Haru emotionally and physically responsive and focused 500% on Rin, likes seeing him expressing his irritation openly instead of through scowls and furrowed brows, likes hearing him bite back the pleasure he doesn’t even realize Rin wants to hear. He wants more of Haru on offense instead of being so passive like before—wants to experience the full force of that proaction as directly and intimately as possible. Yeah, it’d be great to be able to have Haru in as many ways as physically possible (and then some)—but his clock is winding down. He doesn’t have that luxury. So this is what it’s come to.

Haru sits upright, spine straight and expression a wash of wary confusion—and Rin realizes he must sound so contradictory, objecting and demanding in turn, so he tosses the lube onto the mattress and steps out of his underwear, keeping his gaze cast aside so he doesn’t have to witness the embarrassing way his cock bobs when the head gets caught on the hem of his boxer-briefs. He settles onto the bed, flopping back and crossing his arms behind his head for support as he stares up at the popcorn ceiling for the last time.

“I want you to do me—you think you can?”

Haru must reason that he’s asking about physical ability, for he nods. “I’m aware of the workings.”

 _Aware of the workings_ , like sex is a machine to be tinkered with. Rin stifles a grin, then shifts his head over to stare up at Haru. “But do you _want_ to?” When Haru’s brow furrows, he clarifies by propping himself up on his elbows, “I don’t mean are you not opposed to the idea—I mean do you really _want_ to?” He needs Haru to understand it’s not just the physical act he wants—it’s Haru’s _desire_ he’s after now, but he can’t demand it. He needs it to innately bubble up and overflow like a pot boiling over.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Haru gives him something like _Do you want me to want to?_ or worse, another variation on the _You shouldn’t underestimate the water_ lecture, so it’s with no small measure of relief and a jolt to his cock that he hears the gruff order of, “No more stalling,” before Haru lays his palms across Rin’s shoulders to shove him back down. Whether or not he truly does feel desire right now, he’s still giving Rin what he wants: action, offense, demanding and uninhibited.

Haru snatches up the lubricant, uncapping it with a flick of his wrist and squirting a goopy dollop into his palm. He stares at it, entranced at the way the slick coats his fingers, before not-so-gently easing Rin’s legs further apart and probing at his entrance with all of the delicacy of a teenage grope. “Hey— _easy_ , easy!” Rin warns, hand snapping down to guard himself, and he takes Haru’s free hand in his own, showing him how to keep Rin’s cock interested and distracted from the preparation. “Enjoy it, geez. This is supposed to be fun.”

“Fun,” Haru repeats robotically, and Rin nods.

“Yeah.” He spreads his legs a bit further, clenching tight to encourage Haru to probe a little deeper—which he does, his technique more gentle—and more hesitant—than a moment ago. “Let go; live a little, like I said. You don’t have to be all cool and buttoned down all the time.”

Haru’s expression grows tight. “…We aren’t meant to…’let go’. It makes things more…difficult.” And Rin realizes he was right—it’s a defense mechanism, one that’s been trained into Haru somehow. He despairs at the thought of the person Haru used to be now lost to the sands of time, how he’s been left bloodless and drained—but then he realizes that no, that Haru is not completely lost. He’s only buried, only gone to burrow—and with a little coaxing, he can be drawn out again.

He’d chided Gou only hours earlier with a reminder that she needed to work for what she wanted, otherwise it wouldn’t mean as much—and apparently he needs to take his own advice here. Haru isn’t a lost cause, and this act between them can be so much more than a simple in-out-done matter if he shows Haru how to loosen up without coming undone entirely, as he seems to worry.

He’s seen glimpses of the passion burbling just beneath Haru’s surface—and he’s quite confident that he can take that cool expression of Haru’s and heat it up. He rolls his hips to encourage Haru to continue his preparation, conscious of his cheeks heating with lust as he feels desire coiling in his belly. “I’ll make sure you don’t get out of hand, then—I’m the only one you have to show this side to, and you’ve already seen me at my worst, so we'll be even.” He bares his throat, feeling his pulse fluttering wildly just under the thin stretch of skin. “Gonna deny me my last request?”

Haru responds with pink-tipped ears and a red flush painting his clavicles as he finally brings down the dam and allows a rush of lust to wash over him, and Rin can feel it bleed into himself when Haru adds another finger, his preparations slow and rhythmic but no longer so medical or methodical as before. His fingers crook, brushing along his inner walls and sending little electric shivers up Rin’s spine. It’s nothing like the few fumbling times he tried to shamefully finger himself, and Rin feels a swell of excitement tighten his chest—that this might feel _really_ fucking good.

As he feels himself opening up, loosening and adapting to a point where Haru's fingers don't feel so invasive, he closes his eyes and imagines this is some alternate reality where he and Haru have been friends for ages, done this a hundred times before, and they know each other's bodies like the back of their hands. Maybe they swim together—maybe they're rivals like Rin's always longed for, or maybe Haru's something terribly boring like a chef or an artist. Haru massages him slowly, one hand gently tugging on his dick with an occasional swipe over the tip while the fingers of the other scissor and stretch and brush teasingly inside. He sees in his mind Haru leaning over him, feels him kissing Rin's shoulder and inhaling his scent from the crook of his neck, hears him murmuring Rin's name over and over in a whispered mantra to ground himself, tastes the salty chlorine of the local pool still clinging to his skin. He may be dying, but his senses are _alive_ with Haru. Inside and out, Rin fills himself with Haru in every incarnation he can imagine before he retreats back into the present, his _favorite_ —because even if he has to die, he wants it to be with _this_ Haru, the Haru that is all his own, if only for a while. These dozens of other Harus he's imagining are just that: ghosts of fantasy, and he'll have time enough for ghosts when he's dead.

He reaches out to draw Haru closer, guiding him up and over his chest until their lips are level, then cocks his head to the side and drops his jaw open to receive a kiss, languid and burning slow like magma. Haru's lips are trembling against his own, and Rin reaches between them to trace the firm planes of his abdomen—he's got a swimmer's body, and Rin half-regrets not giving in to the urge to race him just _once_ before he goes. He draws back far enough to get a few words in, rasping, "No more stalling," and Haru freezes above him, then swallows thickly with a nod. 

He's glad he doesn't have to remind Haru again to go slow and enjoy it—Haru seems to have learned that careful, targeted movements will prove more pleasurable than a cold, robotic business-as-usual approach, and when he whispers breathily, "Relax," Rin practically melts under the heat radiating from his core. He braces his hands along Haru's biceps, curiosity urging him to glance down and watch as Haru pushes in and bald-faced shame keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the wardrobe beyond them—but then Haru runs a finger along his jaw and guides their gazes back together. "Relax," he orders again, and Rin knows this time he's not talking about the sex. Haru reaches down to position himself properly, and Rin inhales sharply as he begins to breach him, grip going tighter on Haru's biceps as he noses in.

It's weird, and not pain-free, but it's more that good kind of pain like when he's pushing himself hard for the final twenty-five meters: he knows the payoff will be worth it, so he steels himself and just clings all the more strongly to Haru. His knees squeeze tight, trapping Haru's thighs between his own, and it's quiet and still enough just now he can hear Haru's heart beating. He wonders if it's really beating, or if Haru has no such thing. Has he given himself a real body just for Rin to enjoy, or is this all in Rin's head, a fever dream that he'll be snatched from at the end?

He wants it to be real—he wants Haru's heat and sweat and breath and slick to be _real_ , and yeah, he even wants the burn of penetration and the chill of the lubricant to be real, because it's part of this moment, part of him and Haru. He crooks his legs around Haru, urging him deeper, and slips his palms over Haru's shoulderblades to draw him closer. Haru doesn't yet feel fully seated, but Rin's tired of waiting. "Fuck me," he whispers throatily against Haru's lips, and as always, Haru is more responsive to an order than a request. 

With a generous roll of his hips, Haru sheathes himself completely, and they both release sharp gasps and cling a little tighter, neither having really expected it. But before Rin can recover his faculties fully, Haru is drawing out, drawing _back_ , and bracing his hands on the mattress to either side of Rin to balance himself. His back arches, and he's sliding back in, the long line of his shaft rubbing insistently inside Rin, and he squirms with a stifled moan until Haru nudges _something_ and he convulses. "Sh— _it_!"

Haru's eyes are instantly concerned, searching Rin's face worriedly as he freezes in place, and Rin tugs him down for a deep, probing kiss as he tries to inhale Haru's soul, gasping and desperate. "Do that again, _god_ do that again." Haru complies mutely, glancing down to check his progress, but his next pass lacks that _punch_ at the end that sets his vision spangling, and Rin whines in frustration, bucking his hips to take Haru in deeper, convinced he just isn't getting the angle right. Haru's hands come up to brace against his shoulders, holding him in place, and Rin grins loopily at the gesture, thrusting up again when Haru doesn't meet him quickly enough. "Now who's stalling?"

"Shut up," Haru grouses, responding to Rin's challenge with a punching thrust of his own that doesn't hit that spot dead-on but still sends a thrill up his spine, the pain having deadened and the pleasure of sexual energy starting to fire his nerves. It doesn't feel _weird_ or uncomfortable anymore, but he knows it can still feel better, and he needs Haru to come undone just a _little_ bit more to push them both over the edge. 

He slides his palms up the line of Haru's neck and cups him along his jaw, forcing their gazes together. "Make it mean something, Haru."

Haru responds with a searching cinch of his brows, before parting his lips to pull a slow, searing kiss from Rin, setting the rhythm of his thrusts to the kiss, and Rin hisses his pleasure as he wraps his arms around Haru's neck to draw him closer still, their chests brushing and muscles tight. Haru's hips dig into Rin's thighs, each stroke a hair more punishing, more desperate than the last, until they aren't kissing anymore, just open-mouthed breathing and suckling, and it's wild and abandoned and not romantic at all, really, but it's just what Rin needs right now. Maybe if they really were that couple Rin imagined them to be, childhood friends who found each other when they needed someone most, this might be their love-steeped passion-filled goodbye, but it's not—and Rin refuses to give himself any regrets now when he's worked so hard to keep free of those today. If he starts regreting losing Haru just on the cusp of finally _finding_ him, everything else will come tumbling down with it, so he closes his eyes and sucks hard enough to leave a dark mark on Haru's neck that he hopes will last well beyond Rin's death.

Rin's attentions fire Haru even hotter, and his hands come down to cup Rin's ass, tugging him to sit at a new angle that has Rin seeing stars again, and he cries out against the mark he's left, teeth tracing the great vein in Haru's neck now pulsing vibrantly. He tightens his grip, hoping they leave more marks on Haru's back, and finally opens himself up to the tight coiling at the base of his spine, the energy buzzing to burst free and send him shooting over that apex. He murmurs breathy encouragement to Haru, vicious and demanding, and Haru responds in kind with swift, slick pistoning that bunches the comforter beneath them and nearly shoves Rin up against the wall. He rides Haru like a jockey wrongside down, angling jerky thrusts to meet Haru's own, and his cock bobs red and angry between them, leaking desire all over Rin's belly. 

Haru's breath hitches vocally, and he grunts a sharp warning before shoving Rin _into_ the mattress and slotting their lips together, pouring all of the emotion and desire Rin demanded of him into a final punishing kiss, where no one else need notice it, as his hips jerk sharply and he paints Rin's channel with his release. The searing pulse of his slick ignites Rin's nerves, going straight to his cock and jetting out in white streams that mess both their bellies as Haru continues to slowly, lazily thrust beyond orgasm, as if some part of him can't help the urge to drag this out. Rin's skin tingles everywhere Haru touches—his shoulders, his lips, his belly, his cock, his ass—and it's a wonder Haru can even stand the contact, he thinks, because he feels _electric_. Even when exhaustion stills him, Haru just hangs there, still buried in Rin, as he struggles to pull himself back into the carefully constructed box he must occupy. Rin lies splayed with limbs askew, waiting for his breath to steady again and for the room to stop spinning, and draws nonsensical patterns over Haru's shoulderblades.

Haru is trembling, little tiny jolts juddering over the surface of his skin, when he slowly, achingly withdraws at length and rolls to Rin's side. Rin wants to crow _That good, huh?_ but exhaustion stills his tongue—and besides, it seems in poor taste, considering that Haru has given him everything he's asked for. More to the point, it's not romantic at all, and while he'd told himself this didn't have to be romantic, the high of orgasm still burning through his veins has him feeling maudlin. He doesn't want to sour the moment with a thin veneer of bravado; Haru deserves his everything, unadorned, to the bitter end. 

Aftershocks still tingle through Rin, numbing his limbs, and he rolls over to shift onto jelly legs that barely support him, staggering from the room.

Haru lifts his head with some effort, brows cinching. “Where are you going?”

“I’m not running away,” Rin reassures breathlessly, flashing a smile that he’ll probably die wearing if he doesn’t find a way down from this high sometime soon. “Just cleaning myself up a little.” He flicks on the bathroom light, angling himself so he can keep an eye on Haru, and grabs a damp washcloth. “I don’t want whoever finds my body thinking I was some mobster’s side piece who ran afoul of his lover or whatever.” God, he can just imagine the scandal—world-class Olympian found dead, butt-naked with semen streaking down his thighs. Just the kind of legacy he wants to leave those wide-eyed athletes-in-training back in his hometown.

He finishes discreetly wiping himself down and pulls a new pair of underwear from the pile of unfolded laundry sitting near the door, toeing them on and snapping the elastic hem against his skin with a satisfied nod. An old t-shirt emblazoned with the likeness of some fishy character from a ridiculous video game completes his sleep ensemble, and he finally deems himself fit to be found without raising red flags of foul play.

He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge on his way back into the bedroom, taking a swig to quench his raw throat, and offers a draw to Haru as well.

Now is, he supposes, the time to ask all of his questions—his clock is winding down, and if Haru asks him again if he’s stalling, Rin doesn’t know if he’ll be able to truthfully deny it, so he settles on the edge of the mattress, staring ahead at nothing, and gives in.

“Why didn’t you do it when I was a kid?” He hears Haru pause mid-gulp. “Why’d you give me a reprieve?”

The stillness that follows his question is punctuated by the urgent beeping of a washing machine finishing its cycle downstairs and the bellowing of a sweet potato vendor nearby summoning customers, and Rin closes his eyes and inhales the warm, close scent of the apartment, impressing this moment on himself with every sense available. It smells of sunlight and lavender air freshener and _good_ sex, and Rin wishes he could bottle it and take it with him.

“…It wasn’t time yet,” Haru finally allows, words nearly lost in the covers as he slumps against the wall.

That sounds like bull—because aren’t they in this situation now _because_ Haru hadn’t reaped him when he was supposed to? He quirks a dubious brow. “But it’s time now?” Haru nods, refusing to acknowledge the discrepancy, and Rin decides with a shrug of his shoulders that it really doesn’t matter—he’s grateful for the time he’s been given, whether Haru was supposed to allow it or not. He takes the bottle of water back from Haru, securing the cap and setting it on the low table by his bed, and crawls under the covers to share the pillow Haru’s hogging, imagining they’re just taking a short nap to recoup their strength, and maybe they’ll go for round two when they rouse before dawn.

This is it. This is where he dies, this is how he goes; he’s young, but he’s done everything he wanted to now.

Haru quietly settles down beside him, just staring at him—studying Rin’s features, and this time it’s not with that detached observation but like he’s genuinely trying to _memorize_ Rin, holding this moment in his mind as fiercely as Rin is. A storm flashes in his dark eyes, lips tight and thin, and Rin smiles with dawning realization. “…You don’t wanna do this, do you?” Haru’s brows draw together in offense, and Rin just snorts—he’s cute when he’s playing dumb. “That’s kinda sweet.” Rin’s smile goes wry here, and he brings a hand up to stroke Haru’s cheek, like his mother used to do when Rin wasn’t feeling well and longed to be pampered. “Don’t worry, I’ll take your secret to the grave.”

He remembers Haru warning that he isn’t meant to show emotion, to let himself feel—because it makes moments like this more difficult, and he feels suddenly bad for pushing Haru earlier. It was selfish, and demanding—but Rin has never claimed to be anything different, and Haru must surely have known who he was getting into bed with, so it’s not _entirely_ his fault.

Haru’s hand comes up to cover his own, drawing Rin’s fingers away from his face, and they curl together as Rin feels the weight of fate settling over the both of them. He feels childish when he asks, “…Will it hurt?” but Haru doesn’t laugh or roll his eyes or even frown, and for that Rin is exceedingly grateful—he doesn’t want to go out feeling ashamed.

“No…I won’t let it,” Haru promises, and he gives Rin’s fingers a squeeze. “Close your eyes.”

Rin starts to comply—but then frowns, because that doesn’t feel right. He gives a little shake of his head. “Nah, I’ll watch, if it’s all the same to you.” When Haru’s brows cinch in confusion, he clarifies with an easy smile, “Your face was always the last thing I saw, and your voice the last thing I heard… So why ruin a good thing?” He snuggles deeper into the pillow, keeping his eyes locked on Haru’s. “It’s a nice face; I wanna die looking at it.”

Haru blinks silently, processing his meaning, then huffs a soft sigh that Rin takes as his final demonstration of what an enigma he finds Rin. But Rin doesn’t really mind that Haru never came to fully understand him; he likes to leave them wanting more.

He stills himself, slows his breathing, and just _focuses_. He can almost hear the clock ticking down the final moments, a physical _tock…tock…_ that slows with each pendulous swing, and he tries to fill his mind with happy thoughts of those he’s leaving behind, silent farewells that they’ll never hear, but Rin will know he sent. He tries to think about Gou and Sousuke and his mother, about Asahi and Kisumi, about Lori and Russell and even Winnie, about everyone he ever won against—about everyone he ever lost to. But their names and faces and voices are filtered from his mind like water through a sieve, conscious thought fraying and scattering as if he’s falling asleep, the day to day minutiae the mind occupies itself with fading away as he slips off, until all he can cling to is Haru, Haru’s unfailing constance, Haru’s solemn mien, Haru’s clean, clear _blue_.

Deep, dark pools of calm fill his vision and beckon him down, down into silence and stillness, leaving behind the harsh brush of sand and cruel whip of wind and searing glare of sunlight. He loses himself with a sigh of expiration, carried away on soft, buoyant currents under an open sky, and this must be Haru’s gift to him. Haru has always seen right through him, seen his ugliness and his scars, seen his selfishness and his dark desire, but he never judged or ridiculed or sneered, and Rin knows, somewhere inside where he’s still conscious, clinging to those final threads of individuality before he sinks into nothingness, that he ought to be thinking of a dozen others right now, ought to be dedicating these final moments of _self_ to those he’s shared his life with, but all he can focus on is the person he’s sharing his death with. Haru is the only one who’s ever seen him, known him, for better or worse (usually worse)—the one who showed him life was worth living, and death could be worth dying. Haru is—

* * *

Rin wakes with a strangled gasp, eyes wide and bulging as he gulps a lungful of air, chest tight and constricted and everything taking on a soft blur as he blinks helplessly. He clutches at his chest, his shirt, the sheets, and his back arches once before he falls back to the creaking mattress, eyes clenched shut and head throbbing.

“Fuck that was a bad trip…” he mutters to himself, forcing life back into arms that feel as if he’s fallen asleep on them wrongly, nothing but long meaty sticks he can't control. He eventually manages to bring his hands to his eyes and rubs the balls of his palms over them. “Really, really ba—” He cuts his complaints abruptly when he bumps against another body in bed with him, and through bleary eyes he squints to make out— “Haru…?”

Because it’s Haru, here in his bed, gaping at Rin in wide-eyed confusion—and everything comes back in a whitewater rush: London and Gold and newspaper clippings and lunch with Gou and a final sunset and a first fuck and Haru and Haru’s blue.

He scrambles upright, burying his hands in his hair as he tries to collect himself. His breathing is labored, and his words are broken. “I’m—I was…you—you killed me, I _died_. I died?” Now it’s a question, because he doesn’t feel very dead at all. He can _hear_ his own heart pounding a frantic tattoo in his chest. “ _Did_ I die? Am I…?”

Haru just watches him silently, gaze gone wary and distrustful, and he slowly points a long finger at the space between them—and Rin springs to his feet, cursing violently and pacing a tiny box in place because, “Holy— _fuck_ that’s me. That’s—that’s my…” He can’t say it—can’t even _look_ at the limp, lifeless form curled up to Haru’s side, pale and unmoving and sickeningly familiar. “I gotta get out of here—I can’t.”

He shakes his head and strides resolutely into the kitchen, eyeing the faucet with some concern because he needs a drink of water, but what if he’s a ghost? What if he tries to turn on the tap and his fingers just pass through it? What if he’s _still_ on that bad trip, and the thought of being a ghost is what pushes him over the edge, never to recover?

But the old linoleum floor is solid beneath his toes, and he can feel the shift of the t-shirt fabric over his chest, along with the dull throbbing reminder of his final act on earth. He should be able to touch the tap—if he can feel these things, right? He should be able to…

A hand comes down on his shoulder, nearly sending him leaping through the ceiling in fright, and he’s abruptly whirled around and shoved against his counter, the cold steel biting into his lower back as Haru leans forward, searching his face for some clue. Those dark eyes fill his vision anew, drawing Rin back in, and he can remember wanting to drown in them, wanting it to be _over_ , to just dive deep and never come back up again—

He brings his arms up with a hiss and violently shoves Haru back, grousing, “Stop doing that! I told you, it’s creepy when you stare like that!”

Haru just thins his lips, unoffended but lost, and he mutters to himself, gaze going distant, “…Why can’t I reap you? I drew out your soul, severed your ties to your body, so why haven't you returned to the aether? Why are you still…” His eyes snap instantly to Rin, cold and serious, and his fingers dig into Rin’s shoulders as he presses forward to give him a little shake. “What were you thinking about?”

“H—uh?” He doesn’t sound half as lost as he feels right now, but he still falters, tongue half-dead in his mouth.

“When you _died_ —when I took you, what were you thinking about?”

When he died—when the darkness crept in and thoughts were impossible to latch on to, when his consciousness couldn't catch hold of any one thing, the buoy he clung to, like all those times adrift far from shore... His cheeks instantly flare an angry red, and he bites out defensively, "What's it matter what I was thinking? I'm allowed to think what I want when I'm dying—so what the hell is going on?"

Haru's grip doesn't loosen, though; if anything, it grows tighter, almost painful, and Rin winces as Haru presses, "Tell me. Rin."

That dark gaze bores holes through Rin, compounding the effect of Rin's name on Haru's lips for the first time. He could cry, that he had to _die_ to hear Haru address him so intimately. He falters for words a moment, then confesses shamefully, "You, jerk. Of course you. I thought about how it was always you at the end, how I was _glad_ it was you at the end. How nice you made my last day—how you _gave me_ a last day, even. How..." He swallows. "How I would've liked to have spent more time around you..."

Haru immediately releases him, stepping back mutely as his arms fall limp to his sides, and he staggers back into the bedroom to flop face-down onto the bed beside Rin's corpse. Rin hesitantly follows him back, arms crossed over his chest and a wide berth given to his body. "What's your deal?" Haru mumbles something inaudible into the thick duvet. "What?"

Haru turns his head to the side, gaze icy. "This is my punishment. It has to be. Now I'm stuck with you for eternity." He rolls over onto his back dramatically, staring up at the ceiling, and Rin edges closer, keeping an eye on his body as if fearful it might resurrect of its own accord and start wandering about soulless.

"You're not making any sense, you realize?"

"They made you a reaper."

"A _rea_ —" Rin repeats, hands splaying across his chest as he feels himself up, and sudden realization washes over him, elation threatening to bubble up inside because thank _god_ he isn't a ghost, just something _much_ cooler—until Haru interrupts with another groan, and Rin crows, "Hey, maybe whoever's in charge decided you needed a chaperone!" He reaches out to poke Haru's prone form with a toe. "Make sure you don't shirk your duties again."

Haru lifts up onto his elbows, that familiar sour scowl staring back at Rin, and he reminds with a superior, knowing air that Rin despairs he's going to be hearing a lot of, "That's not how it works—it's only..." His face scrunches up. "...if there's something you're really attached to when you're reaped, someone you long to spend more time with, something you regret never having experienced, a place you can't bear to be parted from..."

Rin reflects on Haru's question moments before— _"What were you thinking about?"_ —as well as his response, and a frown of his own creases his brow, because...is that what's happened? Has he gone and gotten himself hitched to Haru for eternity, just because The Powers That Be have determined that his final dying thoughts—latching on to the one thing, the one _person_ , the one constant in his life—must certainly mean he has unfinished business with Haru?

Are they wrong?

He distracts himself from his own preoccupations by teasing, "So what about you, then? What got you stuck here, snatching up little kids who're just trying to have a nice pleasant swim?"

Haru shifts upright, rubbing at his temples. "...The water." And oh, Rin supposes he should've been able to figure that out, given that all of his near-death experiences have involved the water in some form or another. It isn't difficult at all to imagine Haru on his death bed wishing he'd had more time to spend in the deep blue, and perhaps this suits him, even if he seems to be terrible at his job. 

He realizes he never got the chance to ask Haru what he'd been like before—it had taken years to get even a name, but if what Haru is saying is true, it seems they have more time than they know what to do with now. Maybe he'll wring the story from Haru in another century or two. He expects that, very soon, the reality of what he's been through will sink in, and the prospect of living apart from all he knows and loves, of seeing his friends and family mourn his loss and burn incense in his honor, will ring hollow, eternity seeming a curse. And maybe that's what this is—he's wanted too much, desired too deeply, and now he's getting what he deserves. His lifelong obsession with death and Haru and death-and-Haru, wondering when his time will come or how he'll slip by this time, has finally culminated in _this_ : death-that-is-not-death, but with just as much pain and parting. 

For now, though, he's still on a resurrection high, and he feels energy buzzing under his skin, the world around him bright and vibrating even though it's nightfall beyond these four walls. It feels _alive_ , and he wants to feed on that, to remind a part of him that is, frighteningly, already starting to forget what it was to be bound to real true flesh instead of this construct of will and desire that he understands innately to be little more than manipulated perception. Is this what Haru felt, before? Did he ever _really_ feel Rin, feel their mutual heat and slick and tightness? Could they feel it again? Or must he now, like Haru, put away such emotional frivolities and lock himself away in order to take on the mantle he's been assigned? 

It seems a waste, in his opinion: no one wants the hand of Death to be cold and unforgiving. They want someone warm and loving and _alive_ there with them at the end. Maybe Rin _is_ right; maybe he's here to give Haru balance, keep him from taking himself too seriously, to show him that it's _worth it_ to be as kind to every other soul they'll be charged with shepherding as Haru was to Rin. He smiles to himself at the thought—before he catches Haru staring at him, lips resolutely tight and grim. He snorts softly, lifting a brow. "What, pissed you don't get to say goodnight to this sweet prince? Guess I'll always be the one that got away~"

Haru's eyes flash with irritation, and he snaps, "You truly don't get it, do you? You don't understand what this means..." He grimaces to himself, drawing his knees to his chest and burying his face in them. "What you'll have to do."

"Of course I do," Rin returns sharply, squaring his shoulders, and he keeps that dangerous thread of cockiness from leaking into his voice, but only just. "I've known all my life. But weren't you the same, when you decided?" He takes a step closer, settling down on the low table and keeping his corpse out of his eyeline. "Wasn't the fact that it didn't matter the whole point? You wanted it that badly..." He remembers. Everything spiraling down into blue, quiet constance—Haru incarnate, and surely someone so dangerous must have more to him, to be so kind. Rin had wanted, more than anything else, to spend just another moment, another _micro_ second in Haru's presence, to make up for lost time. "...And so did I."

He isn't stupid. He knows he lies dead here, that someone will find him—eventually. That Gou will weep and Sousuke won't, but will want to. He knows that three months from now, his mother will receive flowers and probably break down, _hard_. He knows that everything he's done today, trying to tie up loose ends, will only make things worse, because everyone will keep replaying, over and over, their final moments with Rin, wishing they could have had more time with him—but they won't have the luxury of dying and having their wish granted. So Rin feels the weight of it all hanging over him like his personal Sword of Damocles—but it hasn't fallen just yet.

He hesitates for a moment, then reaches forward and closes the eyes of the body on the bed, still staring sightlessly ahead at Death finally come for it. Then he stands, inhales deeply, and extends a hand, waiting for Haru to take it. "I believe I owe you a sight you've never seen before."

This is where he died, this is how he went—but now he’s ageless at Haru's side and has all of eternity ahead of him.

* * *

  
**A Thousand Winds** , by Mary Frye

_Do not stand at my grave and weep._  
_I am not there. I do not sleep._  
_I am a thousand winds that blow._  
_I am the diamond glints on snow._  
_I am the sunlight on ripened grain._  
_I am the gentle autumn rain._  
_When you awaken in the morning’s hush_  
_I am the swift uplifting rush_  
_Of quiet birds in circled flight._  
_I am the soft stars that shine at night._  
_Do not stand at my grave and cry;_  
_I am not there. I did not die._  



End file.
